


winter in an age of queens

by with_the_monsters



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_the_monsters/pseuds/with_the_monsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When word goes out that the Wolf Queen has retaken the North, the she-bears are the first to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter in an age of queens

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this is a headcanon that has been plaguing me for a long while and I just wanted to get it out so my deepest apologies if this has been done before and that this is one of the worst things I've ever written I just wanted to write it down.

When word goes out that the Wolf Queen has retaken the North, the she-bears are the first to come. They enter the ruin of Winterfell with heads held high, hair unbound, swords at hips and grief on their faces like blood. The Great Hall of Winterfell is little more than four broken walls at the height of a man's thigh, but Queen Sansa sits her new throne like this room is the most beautiful any will have the luck to enter. Such is her dignity that the room itself seems radiant in her presence. It's a room uniquely suited to this winter queen with the summer smile, ice on the walls and snow beneath the feet of its inhabitants.

They kneel before her, the three who were once five, mailed knees crunching into the snow.

"We come to bend the knee to the true ruler of the North," the middle girl announces, her voice dusty with loss, "Bear Island knows only one queen and her name is Stark."

Sansa rises from her throne with calm grace, a flash of despair in her face washed away at the touch of the golden-haired girl who stands behind her. She approaches the kneeling women in utter silence, and then a hushed murmur arises from the Northeners in the hall as she goes to her knees before them, embracing the mailed shoulders of the Mormont who spoke.

"Jorelle," she says, so quietly only the sisters can hear, her voice as warm and kind as a summer day, "My heart breaks for your loss. To lose two sisters - I understand your grief, I share it. I knew Alysane and Dacey when I was a child, I admired their valour and strength. I have heard tales of their bold deeds in the service of my brother and King Stannis, and I wish only that they were here that I might convey my gratitude and my love. And I have heard of your doings, too," she continues, her voice growing in strength, drawing back to place a hand on the shoulders of the other two sisters, "Lyra, I have been told how wisely you rule Bear Island, how kindly you treat your people. Lyanna, my brother Jon showed me the letter you wrote King Stannis all those years ago, declaring your fealty to Robb. He keeps it even now in his solar. I am in awe of your courage and your honour. I thank you, both of you, for all you have done for my family."

She moves to embrace first Lyra, and then Lyanna, whispering words of thanks and comfort in their ears. And then she stands, drawing all three to their feet, and turns them to face the others in the hall.

"My friends," she declares, her voice sweet and sure, silencing the whispers like a sword, "To these women you owe your freedom. It was the Lady Jorelle who persuaded King Stannis to march through the snow to match his strength against my sister-queen in the South, leaving his army so weak from the cold they had not a hope of fighting. Her words, her cunning, they freed us from the grip of his Red God. And the Lady Lyanna you must thank for the death of the Bastard of Bolton. She was the only woman courageous enough to work her way close enough to him to kill him and avenge all the lives he took. I am so proud to have their friendship. I hope you will be too."

The silence lasts for a few short seconds once the queen has finished speaking, but before too long at all a rumbling pounding rushes through the crowd to exhale itself in a loud roar, the most Northern of salutes for the victory and sacrifice of the sisters Mormont. 

"What would you have of me, my sisters?" Sansa inquires as she turns to them, her face alive with fervour, her joy at the love of her people as clear as the day, "Name it and it is yours."

It is Lyra that speaks now, the heir of Bear Island, the gentle voice that kept it safe throughout the long war.

"My queen," she says softly, bowing her head to Sansa, "I would be so bold as to ask three things of you."

"You shall have them," Sansa insists at once, her smile so wide it must hurt her cheeks, "Anything."

Lyra hesitates, and then speaks out once more, her voice strengthening with conviction as she goes on, "My Lady, I would ask that you give Jorelle a place in your household. She has such cleverness as for it to be wasted on our small island, and she understands how to move men more deeply than I can guess. Her place should be with you, her queen, aiding you in any way she can."

Sansa turns to Jorelle now, and she seems like she can scarcely dare hope.

"We knew each other as children," she says quietly, her hands folded together in front of her, "It is too much for me to hope that this is what you wish. If you will have it, Jorelle, I would name you my sister and make you my adviser and friend, to guide me through the ruling of our land and to help our people live in as much peace and comfort as possible."

The smile Jorelle returns is near as broad, a hint of the fire she once carried awake in her eyes again.

"My sister," she proclaims, bending the knee to her queen once more. Sansa raises her without a word and kisses her on either cheek, taking her hand and holding it tight for six heartbeats. And then she releases her, and returns her attention to Lyra.

"What else, my lady?"

Lyra has begun to smile too now, the quietest and saddest of smiles many have ever seen. 

"I would be so bold as to ask your highness' official word that the rule of Bear Island is mine, and will not be returned to mine uncle, returned though he is from the East. He declares he intends to stay in the south with Queen Daenerys, but I would not risk him reneging on his word and returning. I understand that the lordship is rightfully his, but I love my people too greatly to submit them to the fumblings of one who is as a foreigner to them now."

Sansa is smiling still, and Lyra has scarce finished speaking when she interrupts, "My sister, have you not heard that it is the age of queens? Bear Island is yours, I declare it now, and may you evermore pass the rule down to your daughters. A Queen on the Iron Throne, a Queen in the North, a Queen in Dorne and Ladies in so many seats of power. A new age is upon us, my friends, and I am proud to face it with you at my side."

Not even this can provoke a smile from somber, silent Lyanna, and it is with her eyes on her youngest sister that Lyra makes her third and final request. 

"And, my queen, I beg one final favour for my sister. She wishes to train with the Shadow, with your sister. We have heard rumour of her skill and it is Lyanna's dearest wish to be as proficient in her arts."

It is Sansa's turn to wear a solemn expression, and she turns to Lyanna with a grave face. 

"My lady," she says quietly, "I would give you what you wish in a moment. My sister, however, is her own authority and I cannot and will not insist that she do my bidding. I will take your request to her, but I have no way to guarantee that she will say yes. Arya keeps her own counsel, but I rather suspect she wishes those skills on no other but herself. Nonetheless, I have sworn it, and if she agrees then I will bring word to you at once."

Lyanna tips but a nod, and Sansa's smile seems to fade. What she will not say is that this solemn girl reminds her too fiercely of her wild and silent brother, the only one who is with her yet. Her heart tells her that they would have been a good match, once upon a time, but Rickon is enamoured of his little Loreza, the youngest of the Sand Snakes, and Sansa could not have chosen a better wife for the Prince in the North than the Dornish girl with her mischievous little smile. 

In front of all her people, Sansa swears goodness to the sisters Mormont and they pledge fealty and love in return. Then they disappear together from sight into the queen's solar, one of the only rooms repaired so far, and the people smile as they disband. An age of queens, indeed, their Northern lady surrounded by the counsel of the sisters she has taken to replace the family she had once - the quick quiet she-wolf with her hair cut short and too much knowledge behind her eyes; the beautiful little Sand Snake who is now the princess of Winterfell, a Dornish girl who the queen nonetheless would trust to run her kingdom wisely, her volatile Stark husband staunch by her side; the haunted steward's daughter who had more cause than any to loathe Ramsay Snow; and now her three she-bears, claw and strength and wit strong at her back.

And then there's the most beloved of the women, the golden Southern princess with her mother's beauty and a kindness all her own, more wits than any but her sister Sansa and more reason to hate the world than any but her too. Yet they are united by their compassion, their sweetness, their refusal to let the harshness of the world make them hard. They share the Northern throne more days than not, the winter queen and her summer sister, gentle and strong and sure, queens at peace together.

In her solar, away from the eyes of her people, Sansa puts aside her queen's facade for the moment and allows herself to be a young woman again, gentle and joyous in the companionship of her dearest ones. She wishes she could send South to have her sister-queens of the Iron Throne and Dorne there with them, but they have their own kingdoms to run and queens cannot indulge in their desires as soon as they appear. 

Myrcella drops onto the bed beside Sansa, her hands winding gently into the queen's auburn locks, while Lyra compliments the builder who has done so fine a job at repairing the room. Sansa slips one hand into Myrcella's and the other into the fur of the direwolf at her side, huge and grey and ferociously loyal to her, his sister, Bran inside him looking out proudly from his place far beyond the wall, lost bodily but in no other way to the family he loved so dearly once.

Surrounded by her family, by so many more loved ones than she ever had before, Sansa is as happy as she knows how to be without her oldest dearest brother and the parents so long dead. Winter sits in her bones so comfortably it is as though the spirit of the season itself has blessed her, and as she sighs deeply the wind goes through the weirwood beneath the window, and somewhere far above them a god smiles down on the land of queens. 


End file.
